Seating Chart
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: “If there’s an out I want — need — to take it.” Syd mulls over the seating arrangements for briefings. A Dream Writer Experience.


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Title: Seating Chart

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Author: Dream Writer 4 Life

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Rating: PG for language

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Genre: Hangst: humour/angst

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Archived: FanFiction.Net, SD-1, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!

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'Shippers' Paradise: You've got a little V/L, a little S/V…but I'm not condoning the V/L…

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Timeline/Spoilers: Through 3.05 "Repercussions" (small mention of Spy Daddy's "actions" against Simon)

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Summary: "If there's an out I want — _need _— to take it." Syd mulls over the seating arrangements for briefings.

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Disclaimer: I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!

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Author's Note: Musings…enjoy…I [heart] feedback…

Seating Chart

Meetings are getting to be a real drag.

I feel like I'm at a stereotypical family get-together where the seating arrangement is carefully and painstakingly charted out. Dad sits at the head of the table with Mom on his right, because his right arm "isn't what it used to be" and refuses to let the rest of the family know. The twins have their cousin Jennifer between them so they don't fight. Grandpa has a tendency to blankly stare off into space, so Cousin Beth cannot be seated across from him because she's jumpy about those things. And Uncle Bruce simply cannot sit anywhere near Cousin Janice: she's a lesbian and he's the strictest Christian in the family…

See?

The situations are practically identical.

Completely parallel.

So what's my beef?

Oh right. _My family is nowhere near stereotypical._ When was the last time Stereotypical Mom pretended to kill herself? When was the last time Stereotypical Mom shot her Stereotypical Daughter when she saw her almost twenty years later? When was the last time Stereotypical Mom and Stereotypical Dad had a _protocol_ for communicating? When was the last time Stereotypical Dad actually murdered Stereotypical Daughter's ex-lover?

Only once, but they were in college at the time and everyone was doing it…

Just kidding.

Things like that _never_ happen in stereotypical families. I bet the Beave's dad never conditioned him to be a spy.

As a result of the lack of a stereotypical upbringing, now I have no idea how to deal with this…_unpleasant awkwardness._ Do I ignore the tension that is practically palpable? Do I install those little panels they use on "Final Jeopardy!" between the chairs? Do I go so far as to actually create a seating chart?

Because I can't stand this anymore.

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Every time we go in for a briefing, all seven of us do this little _dance_. We tip toe around one another as if we're going through a minefield, or better yet, the neighbour's patch of prizewinning petunias. Marshall is painfully obvious in his efforts to satisfy everyone. He mumbles to himself as he slides around people and darts under outstretched arms. To him, it must be just an elaborate _game_ that we play every day, a game in which the goal is to see what arrangement of people can cause the maximum amount of pain to the maximum amount of people. None of this directly affects him, and the only reason he merits note is that because he's been so cocky lately, everyone is lashing out and directing all their pent-up frustration at him.

Poor Marshall.

Maybe one day he'll learn and shut up before he becomes more than just a verbal punching bag.

Dixon could care less about where anyone sits. He takes charge of the room immediately after striding in, rarely taking the time to even sit down. When he does, it's usually next to the monitor; he has a good view of every movement and glance from that seat.

My father…well, he's a victim of happenstance. Every day he maintains his clipped pace as he deftly and inconspicuously beelines for that One Chair. To everyone else, he looks like a diligent employee who merely wants to get the Good Chair — free from all wobbling and uncomfortable bunches of stuffing, and closest to the boss — but those are the thoughts of a person who does not know my father.

Jack Bristow never was and never will be the model employee.

The only reason he rushes for a seat like his backside is on fire and the chair is a bucket of water is so that he is between Vaughn and Lauren. He has made his contempt for the latter well known, and he would not lose a wink of sleep if his perpetual physical wedge between the two caused a chasm to crack their marriage in half. In fact, I think he'd be pretty damn proud of himself.

But most of the time he's not quick enough, which leaves him with his second choice: immediately across from Vaughn. This awards him ample opportunity to glare oppressively at Vaughn and challenge the world record for time in between blinks. Lauren never fails to take notice of these one-sided staring contests; she must suspect something is up because her eyes narrow and brows constrict, pupils dilating to a pinprick and expanding again as if on a whim. Dad hardly even recognizes her presence, his hatred and condescension for her are that immensely strong. And when he does, I bet she wishes he hadn't, for that same glare is immediately fastened onto her person, its intensity increasing tenfold.

Every time I see this nonverbal exchange unfolding before my eyes, I can't keep from giggling internally.

I love my father.

And it sure as hell sucks to be Lauren.

During the Race for the Perfect Seat, Weiss often gets left in the dust. He's stuck with the last chair (usually next to Marshall) and plunks down heavily and resignedly, sitting back to get ready for whatever soap opera scene we have prepared for that day. Whenever he ends up next to me, though, the meeting is full of reassuring glances and friendly squeezes of my hand. They're nice and all, but…he's not Vaughn. It's as simple as that.

Again, what if anything should I do about this…_mess_? If there's an out I want — _need _— to take it.

That seating chart looks like a good idea. There are six people, six seats, and only seven hundred and twenty possibilities. Ish. Give or take a few. But, oh wait, there are a few factors I forgot, such as I simply cannot sit next to either Vaughn or Lauren (let alone between them), my father and Weiss don't exactly see eye to eye, putting Vaughn and Lauren anywhere near my father would require an ambulance to be on stand-by, and no one can stand Marshall for long…

So…If I plug all those into the equation…carry the one…Ah ha! I've got it: The Perfect Seating Chart. I'm facing the monitor, and starting farthest away from me is Dad, me, then Weiss; on the other side in the same manner is Marshall, Lauren, and Vaughn. This fills all the conditions imaginable, and should make meetings run much smoother.

But no one would be happy.

Not that anyone already is.

Everyone involved in my "case" won't be _happy_ for a **long** time. This won't make it any better. In fact, I think it's kinda beneficial for us to be fighting over chairs, knocking each other out of the way in order to avoid one person or another. Almost therapeutic, really, because every once in a while you fail at your mission, and are forced into an unfavourable situation that you have to spin positively. Getting stuck in between Lauren and Vaughn would _force_ me to interact with them, _force_ a conversation, and _force_ us to deal with our, uh, _issues_. Otherwise they would be left alone, until one horrible night when we all get drunk and both literally and figuratively spill our guts at the most inopportune time, just like one of those cheesy TV dramas. I'd rather leave that to the professionals, if at all possible. With my luck, I'd end up divulging classified information to the janitor pouring sawdust on one of my piles of vomit.

So this seating debacle isn't such a big deal, such a complete pain the ass. Helpful and subtle, it's almost _better_ than therapy — group therapy in particular — and sure costs a hell of a lot less. If you think about it long enough, it becomes practically funny: Race for the Perfect Spot sounds like the newest reality show phenomenon. I'm sure if we were televised every week, we'd grab at least two viewers, one of which being Marshall's mom.

I think I should leave the seating charts to junior high teachers and overly paranoid mothers on their daughter's wedding day. With everything else I have on my plate, I don't want to deal with Weiss's complaints of being too far away from the action for his liking. Instead, I'll let Marshall handle him.

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END


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